


I Wanna Run Through Your Wicked Garden

by filthie



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicide, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Use, Pre-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, TBA as story progresses - Freeform, eventual dom/sub
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:31:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthie/pseuds/filthie
Summary: For the past year, even without the impending zombie apocalypse looming overhead, your world’s been a dark, dismal – for lack of a better word – shithole. A chance encounter at a grief counseling meeting might not be exactly what you’re looking for, but it might just be exactly what you need.





	I Wanna Run Through Your Wicked Garden

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: let's all laugh together at the summary
> 
> a/n #2: OKAY, i’m nervous about posting this because nothing is beta’d so it’s just me and my brain trying to work through and edit all of this. it’s gonna start off slow, but i have high hopes that, at some point down the road, this will be the filthiest, smuttiest fic i’ve ever written, so stick with me. feedback is appreciated!!!!
> 
> a/n #3: the title of the story is taken from a stone temple pilots song because i love stone temple pilots and jdm loves stone temple pilots so that’s that.

In the basement of St. Cinthia’s, eight empty chairs were set up in a small half-circle. The church itself was massive, historic and ornate; the pews upstairs ran twenty rows back and four rows across, and the chapel was sunlit by beautiful stained glass depictions of saints and angels from the bible.

Downstairs was no exception to this grandeur setting.

At eight o’clock every Tuesday night, your GriefShare group met in St. Cinthia’s lavishly decorated basement. A grand piano was placed in the corner of the room, seated upon a handwoven Beljik rug. Behind this was a large stage, now cloaked in a brilliantly blue curtain. Grand-scale scriptural paintings told stories found in Genesis and Deuteronomy. A too-long wooden table lined the front wall, just off to the right of the room’s entrance, only the center being utilized by a sad attempt at refreshments – water, coffee, two dozen donuts, and a neatly stacked assortment of cloth napkins.

You always liked the be the first there, aside from Father Aubry, who lived just next door to St. Cinthia’s and spent most of his free time wandering the chapel’s floorplan.

For the past twenty minutes, you’d been sitting quietly on the plush cushion of one of the traditional oak armchairs the church provided. You let your thoughts wander, considering how, over the past few weeks, you’d taken such a liking to the old priest.

You enjoyed his company so much so that, when he offered you a temporary position at the church while his usual secretary was on maternity leave, you jumped at the chance. Since the incident, you’d been let go from your teaching position, taking waitressing or bartending jobs for as long as you could manage to stay in one place. But helping the Father complete simple tasks such as answering phone calls and emails or printing service pamphlets was surprisingly therapeutic. It didn’t even matter that you’d never felt very comfortable in churches. You guessed this was because you’d never attended services in your youth or teen years, which meant you didn’t have a single God-fearing bone in your body. It also could have been the eyes of every giant wooden Jesus you walked past, watching you take every reprehensible step you took.

Pulling yourself from your thoughts, you glanced down at the phone in your hand, unlocking it to check the time. It read fifteen minutes to eight, meaning the others would be showing up shortly.

And, as if on cue, the echo of footsteps sounded from the hallway behind you, signaling the arrival of your fellow grief group members. You closed your eyes and breathed in slowly through your nostrils. Inhale – one, two, three, four, five. Exhale – one, two, three, four, five. You reopened them just as you saw the familiar faces take their seats around you.

 _This won’t be as hard as it was last time_ , you think to yourself. _It gets easier each week_.

You’re lying and you know it, but a nagging voice at the back of your head tells you to fake it ‘till you make it. As Father Aubry takes his seat at the center of the circle, the same voice reminds you that you can’t drive home and crawl into your bed for the foreseeable future. The voice urges you to not away this time, to not shut yourself off, to not bury yourself in the vices that were so close to destroying you.

You needed to be here. You needed this. If not for you, then for the memory of him.

* * *

The meeting was forty-five minutes in, just fifteen left until Father Aubry would make closing statements. Your group had almost made it around the room, giving each person their chance to speak, to grieve. Per usual, you were the only person who hadn’t spoken yet.

The woman to your left, Ellen, had just finished her turn. Her son, a soldier, had died oversees one month ago, and it was his birthday today. Most of the group shared their condolences, wishing him a ‘Happy Birthday’ posthumously. You stayed silent. You weren’t much of a talker these days; hearing the flat, emotionless tone you spoke in was worse than the half-ass, faux heartfelt words people in this group wanted to hear you say. After all, ‘I’m sorry’ could only go so far. ‘Thank you for sharing’ often did nothing but make you regret speaking in the first place.

Although the Father had tried to get you to branch out more, you’d only ever spoken in the group a handful of times. The first meeting, you’d given them your name and what you did used to do for a living; the second, you’d gotten out who you’d lost and when you’d lost them; each time after, you’d only frozen up upon further coercion from the priest. The engrossed stares of the group around you didn’t help. You knew they were basically in the same boat as you, all having lost someone important, but you weren’t the most open or trusting person to begin with, so it was hard to learn to work with this group dynamic.

You weren’t sure you’d ever get the words out. But maybe that was okay. So far, listening to everyone else’s shit made you forget about your own for a while, and you could settle for that.

A small silence enveloped the room before Father Aubry turned to you. “_____, how has your week been?”

You sat motionless, wishing to still be immersed in the quiet. Your eyes moved from their focus on the carpet to meet the Father’s stare. His look was forbearing, but also expectant. You now held the metaphorical microphone. It was your turn to wallow in the pity party you wished you’d never been invited to in the first place.

Just as you were about to piece together a response, the door behind your circle creaked open. Everyone turned to look, curious as to who was interrupting them this evening. You were beyond thankful for the distraction.

The man standing at the entrance was tall. Big. He wore black combat boots, distressed blue jeans, a wrinkled Pearl Jam shirt, and a leather jacket. He was also the best physical representation of the word “brooding” that you’d ever seen. His dark hair was short but disheveled. A splattering of salt-and-pepper-colored stubble overtook the lower half of his face, but you could still make out the shape of a frown underneath.

“Well, that’s a way to make a fucking entrance,” the man said, referring to the inquisitive sets of eyes scrutinizing him. He then seemed to look around, taking in his surroundings more profoundly, particularly the paintings on the wall. “Oh, shit, am I allowed to fucking swear? I don’t really feel like getting smighted by the mighty dick of the Lord tonight.”

At his choice of words, a few gasps sounded from around you. You couldn’t help the amused smile that pulled at your lips. You looked to Father Aubry, who sat staring at the newcomer, an unfazed expression on his face.

“I assure you there’ll be no smighting,” he promised. “This is a place where you’re free to speak as you wish, though I do hope you’ll take into consideration the fragility of the group you’ll be spending some of your time with.”

The man looked around the circle, his head bobbing in a steady stream of nods. Then he shrugged, an indifferent gesture confirming he probably wasn’t going to take that into consideration after all.

“You must be Negan,” Father Aubry continued. The man – Negan, apparently – gave another nod. “Well, I’m happy you decided to join us tonight. We’re just about finished, but it’s a good idea for you to get at least somewhat acquainted with the group. Let me grab you a seat.”

Father Aubry stood and disappeared into a smaller room near the stage. He returned with another chair and set it across the circle from you, next to the couple who’d lost their ten-year-old daughter in a skiing accident last winter.

“Come, sit,” Father Aubry prompted, gesturing from Negan to the open seat.

Negan seemed to be seriously contemplating something. You knew the look well. “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” by The Clash was probably playing in a loop in his head right now, clouding rational thought and better judgment.

Without really thinking about it, eager for this to speed up so the Father could end tonight’s session and you could be on your way home to nothing and no one, you decided to help him out.

“You know, the longer it takes you to sit down, the longer we’re all gonna keep staring at you.” As an afterthought, you added, “Unless you like all the attention. In that case, we’ve got a stage,” you referenced with your hand to the platform off to the side of you, “if you’d be more comfortable standing over there.”

You were teasing, not meaning your words to be interpreted as hostile.

His face was momentarily unreadable, but he soon laughed, a short and boisterous sound that reverberated through the room. It may or may not have been humorless, but the amused look he regarded you in seemed genuine. Out of the corner of your eye, you could tell Father was watching you apprehensively. You chose to ignore him.

“Shit, sweetheart, okay,” he said, putting his hands up as if in defense. He sauntered over to the chair. “You fucking convinced me. I’ll sit and play nice.”

When he took his seat, the housewife next to him reached out to cling to her husband, looking at Negan with distaste. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Negan’s gaze followed your own, smiling wide at the woman. She blanched and gave a quiet huff, averting her eyes. Her husband was oblivious. Negan turned his gaze back to you.

“Wonderful,” Father Aubry commenced, finally returning to his own seat. He clasped his hands together and focused his attention on Negan, who was still staring in your direction, the smile now gone from his face. Instead was a look of concentration: thick, furrowed brows; unblinking, hazel eyes; strong, set jaw. You raised your eyebrows, tilting your head.

Father Aubry cleared his throat, which seemed to pull Negan’s awareness back to the room and group around him. “I know we spoke a few weeks ago, but I’d like to remind you of a few things before we finish up for the night. It’s important that whatever we speak about in this room is kept confidential; no story is yours to tell unless it’s your own. Listening without interruption is also crucial to remain a nonjudgmental, safe circle. Remember that silence is sacred. This means that if, at any point in someone’s sharing, they pause to retrospect, we will do the same. Do not offer advice to anyone unless they specifically ask you to do so. Also offer no platitudes along the likes of, ‘They’re in a better place.’ While you may think you’re being helpful, the sentiment can be painful at times.”

Negan sat silent during this instruction, his right leg shaking up and down, shoulders tensed. His arms were crossed over his chest, his eyebrows pulled high on his forehead. He looked uneasy, and you didn’t blame him. Aside from whatever situation Negan himself was dealing with, Father Aubry was an intense man, no nonsense and right down to business. That could be overwhelming, especially when you were surrounded by strangers. You figured this was the reason for the man’s distressed demeanor – that, or Negan just didn’t respond well to others ordering him around.

“Now that that’s out of the way, like I said, I’m very glad you could make it. We don’t have much time left, but I believe we have enough for one more. And, Negan, since you haven’t heard anyone’s story, I don’t want you to rush into what’s brought you here just yet. We’ll have plenty of time for that next week.”

 _Oh, shit_. You knew what that meant.

Father Aubry turned his gaze to you and you pursed your lips. He sent you a soft, knowing smile. You’d been hoping Negan’s arrival would stretch until the end of the meeting, but you should have known better. Things rarely seemed to work in your favor lately.

“Would you mind showing Negan how this typically works, _____?”

You nodded after a few moments, your hands moving to fidget in your lap. You didn’t know where to focus your eyes, suddenly very aware of the shift in the attention of the group to you. You sighed, deciding to settle on the newcomer’s weathered band tee.

“Well, my name’s _____,” you began. Your voice was impassive, furthering the worry you felt about not being able to showcase enough emotion to the group around you. You felt an empty hole inside your chest where you assumed your sadness was supposed to go. It sometimes made you think you were less of a person, not moved to tears like all the others, even though Father Aubry frequently reminded you that everyone grieved differently. “I lost my husband, Clarke, a year and a half ago. He was a teacher at a high school in Culpeper.” You pulled your lower lip into your mouth, worrying it between your teeth before releasing it and continuing. “One of his students pulled a gun out in class, and aimed it right at him. Shot him six times in the face and chest and then turned the gun on himself.”

The harsh intakes of breath sounding from around you made you think that you maybe should have softened the blow, but you couldn’t bring yourself to word it any differently. You’d said what had happened. No more, no less. That was what you were here for, to get this heavy shit off your chest, right? To try to move on? To maybe feel okay again one day? Sugar coating the truth for the sake of everyone else wasn’t going to make the healing process any smoother.

You were on the fence about going further, debating whether or not you should explain why you were here and what you hoped to get out of this experience. You didn’t want to talk anymore. You figured you’d already said more than you’d ever said in any other meeting, so, in your mind, that was enough for tonight.

One look toward Father Aubry insinuated otherwise; he was nodding, an unhurried but eager expression on his face, satisfied that you’d finally opened up, not wanting this moment to pass for you.

You sighed in defeat, straightening your posture against the back of the chair.

“I’m here because – well, I don’t fucking know, I miss him, obviously. And I’d like that to get easier, I guess. It’s still so weird to not feel him in bed next to me when I wake up, or to not hear him come home at night and throw his keys on the kitchen table.”

Chancing a look up at the group around you, you saw the same pitiful smiles you’d seen for the past few weeks. The only difference was that now they were all aimed at you. A few head nods were intended to make you feel like you weren’t crazy, that those were rational things to miss, but for some reason, it just made you even more uncomfortable.

You could feel yourself squirming in your seat, but you forced yourself to continue you so this would be over. So the Father would take control again and dismiss everyone, leaving them to go about their lives for the remainder of the week, hoping they all would forget what you’d said, and what you were about to say. The one thing worse than being surrounded by a group of people who feel sorry for you, is being surrounded by a group of people who feel sorry for you and also silently judge you.

“A few weeks after he died, I started,” you stalled, but soon decided you’d already dug yourself this deep, and continued, “taking pills. And drinking more than I’ve ever drank before, even though I’m a fucking lightweight to begin with. I don’t know…if I was trying to kill myself. I mean, I don’t think I wanted to die, even then. But the alternative was to stay sober and think about Clarke and see him in every room in our house or wonder if every student I walked by had ever had him as a teacher. And I couldn’t handle that, so I chose to pretend like it never happened, which is where the Xanax and vodka tonics really came in handy. I could turn off feeling anything and everything in a matter of twenty minutes.”

Your voice felt hoarse, your words thick, your throat raw. You wondered briefly if this had been the most you’d talked since Clarke’s passing.

You glanced at the grandfather clock near the room’s entrance. It was three minutes to the hour, about time for Father Aubry to take over. “Anyway, um. I checked myself into a clinic after I lost my job. I’ve been clean for almost six months. I’d been in an NA group for a while before the guy in charge suggested I come here, so. Here I am.”

You wrung your hands together and offered a shrug, eyes moving to the Father as if saying, ‘Please, please, please don’t make me talk anymore.’ The wise old man took the hint, smiling tenderly at you as he nodded.

“Thank you, _____,” he said. The unblinking of his warm gaze made your eyes betray you, watering at his authentic appreciation.

Not about to cry in front of anyone, not intending on giving up control in that aspect, you turned your head before rolling your eyes up, blinking rapidly until you felt the tears dry up and disappear.

Father Aubry continued to talk, his attention now on the group as a whole, finally doling out his goodbyes and intentions for the next meeting.

Negan was staring at you again, but this time his expression wasn’t that of concentration. You could have been mistaken, but it almost looked like awe. His lips were parted, features soft (a nice look on him, if you might add). His eyes were moving quickly about your face, studying you. He was bent over in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, hands intertwined.

The intensity of his watchfulness made you squirm again in your seat, this time to combat the warmth you felt beginning to spread in your lower belly. The feeling wasn’t foreign, but it had definitely been a while since it had last made itself known, and you were inwardly berating yourself for its return at the most inconvenient time.

Talking about your dead husband, the love of your life, while a familiar wetness was threatening to pool at your center. How erotically fucked and poetic.

* * *

 You made your way to the refreshment table after Father Aubry had dismissed the group. Everyone had left, leaving just you and the newcomer, the Father having already disappeared into some corner of the church.

Negan joined you just as you grabbed a bottle of water for the drive home. He was flicking the lid of one of the donut boxes with his finger, letting the weightless cover open and close, open and close, open and close.

You were watching his hand. You knew he was watching you.

Turning your frame toward him, you realized just how big this man was actually built. You weren’t short, but you knew he could tower over you easily had he tried. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad. The energy around him was borderline volatile, making him seem like he took up even more space than he already did, and you guessed that was the way he preferred to present himself. He was carrying baggage, that you could tell. There was a sad heaviness weighing him down.

Still, emotionally wounded or not, he was staring. Any other night, you may have been able to ignore it, to roll your eyes and distance yourself and walk out without another word. But tonight you were already feeling different – you’d finally opened up, you’d shared, you felt vulnerable and, though you’d never admit it aloud, weak. Pitied. Shameful.

“Can I help you with something?” you asked, voice conveying as much indifference as you’d hoped.

“Did your husband really die like that?” he asked, point blank.

You were taken aback by his bluntness, his total lack of what was or should be appropriate in a social setting now even more evident with his question.

You actually laughed, an incredulous look on your face.

“No, I lied,” you lied. “He’s in the car, waiting for me. Totally alive. We just, I dunno, like to go to different grief groups and pretend each of us are dead for the free water and napkins. You know.” You waved your hand vaguely in the air. He didn’t know. You didn’t either.

You could tell he was biting back a smile. Maybe even a shameful one. “Yeah, sorry, uh. I guess I don’t really know how to word shit sometimes. A fatal fucking character flaw, if you will.”

You shrugged, taking another sip from the water, this time hoping he’d keep his mouth shut until you finished. He did.

“Fucking anyway, that’s really horrible. What happened. That stupid ass kid who shot him fucking sucks.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, the straightforwardness of Negan’s sentiments shocking and confusing the shit out of you to the point that it was actually comical.

Suddenly, you felt a twinge of remorse for delighting in this stranger’s ambiance. You were laughing at the expense of a tragedy that tore your entire life apart. You were laughing while someone you loved more than anything was slowly rotting away six feet under.

“Fatal fucking character flaws, right?” you managed, capping the water bottle.

Negan huffed out a closed-mouthed laugh.

His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. You watched it before deciding that was enough excitement for the night.

“I’ll, um – see you next week, Negan?” you asked, forcing the smallest of fake smiles to match to feigned inquisition in your words. Except, if you thought about it a bit harder, without feeling bad about doing so, you might realize you really were interested in seeing him again.

Regardless of the energy-draining, depressing setting.

He nodded. “You won’t be able to get rid of me that goddamn easy. You’ll see.”

It was your turn to nod, even though you weren’t entirely sure what his final words meant. They sounded like a promise, or a threat. You weren’t sure whether you wanted it to be one or the other, both, or neither.

Without another word, you turned and headed out of the basement, up the stairs, out to your car. You were going home, to nothing and no one. Negan would soon do the same.

The two of you were oblivious to Father Aubry standing in the doorway to the room next to the stage, where he was now returning the chairs. In a big, quiet space like this, voices echoed. Words carried. Body language was plentiful.

To anyone else, Negan might have seemed like nothing but the tough, vulgar, mean-spirited shell of a broken, soulless man, but Father Aubry knew he had demons that made him that way, just like you.

Maybe the two of you could learn to fight them together.


End file.
